


Spectrum

by darkangel_silvermoon



Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Depression, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, TW: suicidal ideas, johnlock in the end, let me know if I forgot to tag anything, post!fall fic, tw: attempted suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-26
Updated: 2017-08-26
Packaged: 2018-12-20 03:51:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11912634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkangel_silvermoon/pseuds/darkangel_silvermoon
Summary: Music is worthless unless it can make a complete stranger break down and cry~ Imogene HeapJohn is tired. He's reached his breaking point. What's a man to do?





	1. No Light

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was inspired by Florence and the Machine's Cerimonials. Let me know what you think.

There are no birds singing today.

His scarf billows around him, cold concrete unforgiving as he slowly makes his way forward.

The silence did him in— scratching behind his eyelids as his skin crawled.

The stillness killed him— time frozen as the world moved on without him…without them.

The world forgot.

John didn't.

John thought he could make it out of his flat today.

The walls; stark-bare, clutter his breathing space until there's no room for him to exist.

So he ventured out, bitter winds scrubbing across his face— the white-hot pain of feeling.

He hasn't felt anything in a very long while.

John leans heavily on his cane. People wash past him like he's a boulder set in the middle of a stream.

They eye him.

He's the leper.

Diseased.

Alone.

The silence buzzes along his spine; each three legged step he takes, silence bubbles under his skin.

Sherlock's silence.

Guilt branded under his tongue.

The world has forgotten them.

The good that they did.

Just Sherlock's name whispered; vague wisps of smoke called to mind just to fade just as quickly as they came.

John forgot.

For the briefest of moments between his heart shuttering him awake and him coming into his mind. John forgot Sherlock's descent; the soundless connection from sky to the cold concrete.

Guilt weighs heavy on the threads holding John together.

Watered down sun tries to reach him; John hobbles down the street, deep furrow in his brow from the pain.

The pain of loss.

Of forgetting…

And when he passes a shop, he hears it.

The slight strain at first— he turns at the dips and bows of the melody.

The wind picks up, scrubbing at his face, and yet he remains stock-still; his knees locked.

He feels is heartbeat in his lips as his tongue passes over them; skin cracked and sore, tender flesh exposed…healing, scarring. It doesn't matter anymore.

People push past him, taking no note.

John's fingernails dig red crescents in his palms as the music swells—

He can feel something split inside him. Something bubbles to his throat, choking the life out of him.

He misses Sherlock.

There were so many things he should have told Sherlock…should have done…but John was always three steps behind.

No way to catch up now.

Sherlock left him behind.

His chest seizes and he can't seem to catch his breath…and somehow the cold concrete is pressing against his back and he's staring up past this woman's face and into the cloudless grey sky.

It's the stormy grey of Sherlock's eyes.

Somehow, John's on his back and someone's holding his head. Pain radiates from the base of his skull, coming to a boil behind his eyeballs.

His mouth opened in a silent scream.

John has the urge to smash his head against the concrete, over and over until he stops feeling. Until everything stops, just fucking stops for a moment.

He wants Sherlock back. Back where he belongs. Wants everything to right itself. For Sherlock not to have fallen...he didn't jump for Christ's sake. He fell.

He just fell.

John wants to nag Sherlock to eat and Sherlock in turn dragging him on cases and driving him up the wall…John wants Sherlock in one piece…John wants Sherlock to not be…dead.

Instead, he mumbles his apologizes, brushing off strangers offers of help and insistence for medical treatment.

Instead, he reaches for his forgotten cane, hoists himself slowly from the ground and dusts himself off.

He hears the whispers…the anxious buzz of bees.

_It's that loony fellow's flatmate._

_What's his name…the funny named fellow…_

_Sherlock and…_

_What a shame…_

_He's a crockpot too then?_

John's gone completely numb. Tries to breathe.

He struggles to get away from the crowd that has surged around him.

He knew he shouldn't have come out today, he just thought that it might be a good idea, it being year since Sherlock…fell.

But he's broken beyond repair.

Sherlock's gone.

There's nothing to hold on to.  


	2. What the Water Gave

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning possible trigger: (suicide attempt)
> 
> SO DEFINITE M-RATE TERRITORY HERE! (So be warned)
> 
> Reviews and kudos are very much appreciated. Thank you for taking the time to read.

John could almost say he feels ridiculous, sitting in the claw foot tub, wearing Sherlock's coat; the pockets weighed by heavy stones.

But that would imply that that John felt something besides the numbing calm that has settled in the pit of his gut.

There is no Mrs. Hudson to check in on him.

There is no Sherlock to interrupt.

There will be no John Hamish Watson.

The water leaves him swaying back and forth as he grips the side of the porcelain; knuckles hot-white, skin stretched thin.

There's no Sherlock.

There is no peace.

He needs rest.

He's tired.

Hollow.

Broken.

There is no sound except the water lapping against the rim of the tub, and his harsh breathe.

He is going to do this.

He's going to die.

His heart kicks at this thought.

John remembers his first night with Sherlock; he'd asked his last few moments of life, what would he say?

Told Sherlock he begged 'oh god, please let me live." He had meant it.

And when Sherlock was on the rooftop, John screamed a prayer in his heart. "Please God, let him LIVE!"

His heart finally gave out at Sherlock's grave; smooth black marble very real.

It bowled him over.

His prayer to Sherlock to do a final miracle, to not be dead.

That's all he asked…for that one simple thing.

That prayer would be forever unanswered.

Falling on the deaf, dumb and blind.

John wishes he could believe in the afterlife.

Wished he could believe in spirits and reincarnation…

But what comes after Sherlock?

What greater form of life is there?

Sherlock's gone, there's no way to bring him back.

The water chills as he rests his head against the back if the tub, hair curling at the nape of his neck.

He stares at the ceiling, sick light filtering through the frosted window.

He's going to do this.

He lets himself sink lower in the bath.

His breath picks up, water splashed to the tiled floor.

Calm. He needs to stay calm.

He lowers his head further, letting the water cover his mouth. The wool of Sherlock's coat clings to him, weighing his limbs down.

He takes shuttering breathes, his hands beginning to tremor.

He feels so heavy. So tired. He wants peace.

He's not giving up. He's just giving in.

The water bubbles under his nose with each breath— his throat and chest aches in anticipation.

He sinks lower— hair swirling overhead as he lets himself slip under.

John blinks, the water giving him a mirror.

He lets his hands float as he slowly exhales; tiny glass bubbles float to the surface.

John stays still for a while, listening to the sound of his heart pounding double time against his temples. Black and white dots swim in front of his eyes— images of Sherlock tear through him. Sherlock with his non-smiling smirk; lips quirked to the side as he takes in the greatest joke that no one's in on. Sherlock pacing half-mad with boredom; or Sherlock glowing from the praise John would bestow upon him. Sherlock's eyes rimmed red, dark shadows bruising under his eyes as he stays awake for the fourth night in a row.

John's body twitches as is chest burns.

A breath—a breath— he needs a breath.

He takes one.

Water rushes though his nose and mouth, leaving them burning as he gasps— mouth opened in a silent scream as he thrashes. Air. Air…he needs…He tries again, body rebelling as his head bobs above water. He takes another gasp, water slowly filling his lungs. Watery burbles come as he breathes again, again, water filling his body – his cries of pain mocked by water. Water all around him and his limbs get tired, he's so bloody tired from all the thrashing and he tries to take another pull of air but his lungs aren't working, his chest won't rise and his body shakes no longer in sync with his mind, no longer in control; his mind says breathe, lungs saying fuck it all there's nothing but water; water, his heart pounding in his head…all around him as his thrashing slowly turns to twitching; darkness creeping along the edge of his vision and the muddled shadow of a figure on the water, an angel, such an angel pulling, an angel of light; Sherlock, Sherlock fucking Holmes, as something tugs him up, a garbled mess as he slips from the world; something tugging, tugging him…free.

John stills.

There is no John Watson.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: It'd be great to hear what you guys think…reviews are amazing. Plus it gets you tons of hearts and cyber luv from a certain fan fic writer. thank you for taking the time to read.


	3. Heart Lines

John feels like hell.

His head pounds with the incessant beep of the heart monitor, oxygen mask digging into the side of his face. It feels as though he's swallowed drain-o, a fire with each breath he takes.

Doesn't have the energy to open his eyes.

Doesn't have anything to wake up to.

Nothing except the endless days stretched taut with petty drivel with no end in sight.

'This is what Sherlock must've felt,' John would have thought if it didn't hurt like hell.

John feels cool fingers against the back of his hand; a light touch brushing against the monitor clipped to his index finger. Thin…rough finger pads— that of a musician; a violinist.

"Oh John, do settle." The touch seemed to say as his heart quickened. He wants to open his eyes.

The fingers rub slow circles in the back of John's hand.

"Sher-" John's voice crackles…

Eyes open! John wants to beg and plead for all he's worth… but he's so heavy.

The fingers still and John wants to grasps them. Take the hand in his and squeeze for all he's worth. Because he's here. And he's broken. And he wouldn't be if Sherlock stayed. John couldn't scream if he'd wanted to.

He's slipping from consciousness again as the fingers curl around his, a reassuring squeeze he's felt so many times before; someone else's lifetime.

It's not his anymore.

'Stay'— he tries to think, but it hurts too much, as he slowly drifts away.


	4. Only If For A Night

 

The first time he opens his eyes, he is utterly alone.

That is a pain too much to bear.

The second time he opens them, Sarah, Mrs. Hudson, and Molly all hover around his bed.

Mrs. H bursts into tears, Sarah's brow's furrowed as she bravely fights them back, and Molly—

Molly leans in close and whispers, "we can't lose you."

Grief and regret stretches taut between them. John's the first to look away.

The next time he's in between sleep and waking.

He feels the familiar cool, rough fingers mindlessly making patterns into the skin on the back of his hand.

He slits his eyes to see a blurred mess of tangled black curls.

"Stay"— John rasps, eyes fluttering as they glaze over the figure next to him.

The figure's head slowly turns— John tries his damned to stay alert and focused.

"Stay" He murmurs, his lips cracked and white. His throat burns with each breath.

The monitors beep and blip as John struggles to open his eyes. The figure is still, staring intensely at John.

There's a small hitch in breath.

"I've already put you in harm's way." The voice— his voice rumbles deep in John's chest. John squeezes his eyes shut as tears scratch at the corners of his eyes.

He blinks, turning his head and he sees him.

"Stay. God. Damn. It." John croaks, his voice straining, chest heaving as he tries to catch his breath. His body shakes with a rage he has not felt in a while; a consuming anger at everything that brought them to this place.

"Please… Can't…S'dn idi't…Can't…Alone…Again." John wheezes as he clenches his fist into the bed sheets.

It hurts more than drowning to be here like this. And he can tell he's listening, John can hear the cogs turn in his head.

"Please John, forgive me." His eyes a stormy grey as his eyes flicks over John's. He presses his hand against John's cheek. John sobs.

"It was never my intention to hurt you this deeply." His voice is soft, determined.

"I'll be done soon. I promise."

"Home…w'th me. Safe." John gasps as he reaches to squeeze his hand.

He nods. A promise.

"Love. You. Sherlock."

"As do I you, John." He says in earnest. He leans over John to press a gentle kiss to his temple.

John struggles to stay awake…

When John opens his eyes again, he's alone.

It's worse than drowning.


End file.
